Letters to a Seven Billioner
by italicizedkurt
Summary: This story is a series of letters written by one Kurt Hummel to one of 7 billion people in the world that he hopes to meet someday. Eventual Klaine. Rated M for language and future subject matter/s . I don't even know if 'future subject matter' is accurate, but just roll with it. I WILL put a trigger warning for the appropriate chapter/s, please don't worry.
1. Letter 1

**Author's Note:**

Welcome to the story! This 'story' started out as a gift drabble for my friend Emily ( .com) for her birthday, but I kind of went overboard. So, this is gonna be a multi-chapter type of thing, and now, this first chapter is dedicated to EMILY. The whole story, however, will just be for general fandom.

Happy birthday, Em!

Hope you like it!

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Dear Seven Billioner,

I'm feeling a little silly right now because I don't even know who I'm writing to, nor do I know if I'm even writing to anyone at all. I don't know how to refer to you.

Do I call you friend? Best friend? Ally? I think it would be strange to start a letter with, "Dear ally," don't you? Although, if in fact, you _were_ an ally, that's probably how I'd call you. I don't even know if you'll _be_ any of these things by the time I hand this over to you, or if we'll even meet, or if I'll ever start to use your name, or if I'll even give this to you at all (although, if I were to give this to you, I think you'd be a little more than an ally)… All I know is, as of this moment, you are one of the 7 billion people on this Earth that I'll be fortunate enough (hopefully fortunate) to meet.

So, for now, (just to be safe) I'll start with, "Dear Seven Billioner," then maybe I'll start working my way up to ally when I think we've already met, okay?

I don't know why I'm writing this, actually. I feel like you could be somewhere out there for me to find, and that I will, soon enough. But I need to be able to, in a way, touch you, speak to you... _now_. It's hard to wait when I feel like I could've already met you, I could've already talked to you, and I just didn't know it was you... I don't think I have, though. None of these people are as special as I hope for you to be.

I think the most mind-boggling thing about this is that I'm writing to a future you, and not right-now-you. I'm kind of writing this… journey. I'm writing about the journey that I... we(?) took to develop whatever it is that we'll be by the moment you read this. It's kind of setting my fate in stone, don't you think? Or just… concretizing it.

When I think about all the possibilities of who you might be, I think about what you could look like. If you'd have a big nose, or some kind of weird facial piercing. If you'd have a mohawk like our resident badboy Puck, or if you'd have lovely long hair like this short friend that I have, Rachel. No, I don't want you to have hair like Rachel. I want you to have boy hair. I want you to be a boy because…

I think you'd know that by the time I give this to you, though. And you'd probably be laughing right now because, well _duh_. But the fond kind of laugh, I hope. Not the kind of laugh I hear nowadays.

It's not that bad anymore, really. I'd like to think that it really is getting better. Yesterday was the first time in a year that I got thrown in the dumpster. That hasn't happened since Finn and the guys joined Glee Club. Oh, uh, Finn is my stepbrother. Yes. Long story. I'll probably have told you in person anyway, so there. I don't know why I'm reintroducing you to all of these people, actually. You'll have known them all by now. And yes, I'm in Glee. But, again, you'll have known that.

So anyway, back to the dumpster. I think that it sparked some kind of melancholy in me. Something that I've been suppressing because, I mean I'm THE gay on campus. I'm the independent gay man that's strong and hardheaded and can take anything the bullies throw my way, right? Well, that's never really been me. That's never… and whatever front I've put up to defend that image or title or whatever it is, it's starting to deteriorate.

I realized that I was in the dumpster again. And I was alone. In the dumpster. I was alone in the dumpster. And when I realized that, I felt lonely. It's been a while since I've felt lonely. I thought I was okay, but I'm just not. This is why I'm writing to you.

I'm holding on to you, future you. I'm making it my mission to find you. I'm hoping for you, and that you'll help me feel less lonely. I'm hoping you'll be much more than an ally. I'm hoping I'll move on from calling you "Seven Billioner".

-Kurt


	2. Letter 2

**Author's Note:**

Hope you guys are liking the story! Anyway, here's the second letter. Hope you like it!

Reviews are love and unicorns! :)

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Dear Seven Billioner,

'Twas another swell day at school today. No, really, no more dumpster throwing for me, starting today. Nope, not for me. I know, right? Yes, the lettermen have deemed me unworthy of something so tame and gentle. They came up with something better for my case, worthy of my –ness. Locker shoving. That's right. It's like clockwork- around 10 minutes before the day starts, a few minutes after the lunch bell rings, and right as I shut my locker door to leave school. They don't shove me inside, though. They just shove me against the hard metal. No more dirty papers and empty slushie cups to cushion the impact. I guess the upside is that my clothes don't get stained anymore.

I think this hurts more than being thrown in with the trash. Well, of course there's more physical pain, with the soft flop as I fall into the school dumpster being replaced with the hard, loud clang as I collide with the locker door… if I'm fortunate enough to hit _only _the door. Most of the time, I hit the hinge with the screws. The fucking screws. It's a wonder how my cardigans never snag on them, or how my head never caves in.

Anyway, where was I? Oh, right. Pain.

I think it hurts my heart more, this way. It sounds incredibly cliché, I get it… but I can handle the physical stuff. I can. It's the emotional and psychological stuff- _that's_ the problem. When they shove me, in the middle of the crowded corridor, I can _feel_ the eyes turning the other way, the heads snapping up to see what made the bang, and the same heads whipping back around, pretending they didn't see. The ignorance becomes obvious. The ignorance is what hurts the most because the people around me _choose_ to turn their heads. They _choose_ to look the other way. They _choose _to do jack shit about anything. They choose to not care. I would sit on the floor, after being pushed into the locker, watching the students and watching the teachers. I would watch them not care.

It hurts that no one wants to care. But it doesn't matter if_ I_ care. They don't care if I care. The sad truth about McKinley High, about Lima, Ohio, is that those who are different and, dare I say, _special_, don't get a voice. The minority doesn't matter in this school, in this town. Of course, I remembered that I was part of that minority.

And then I was lonely, still. The loneliness rang louder this time. This time, for the first time, I felt like I was the problem. I felt like I was wrong, that they were right to hate me. For the first time, I hated myself. I hated that I hated myself. It scares me that I hated myself.

Sure, New Directions gives me a little comfort. (That's our glee club, but you knew that.) They know what it's like; they can sympathize. They're the ones who care. But that's because they're like me. They're bullied, oppressed, tortured, like me. You can say that I'm overreacting, yes. But I'm hoping that by now you know how much this is continuing to scar me, and how much it's scarred me up until the time you read this.

I can't help but feel like if I knew you, if right now, you were more than an ally, more than a Seven Billioner, you'd be here for me. You'd be here to save me, to be the knight that I've always dreamed of. And you'd care. You'd care with every inhale you take, every flutter your eyelids make, every grasp of your fingers on mine. I know that for a fact. I can feel it.

I'm still hoping for you, you know. I don't know you yet. None of the people around me feel just right, like I know _you_ will. I _will _know you.

-Kurt


	3. Letter 3

**Author's Note:**

**TRIGGER WARNING:** This next chapter is Kurt's suicide note sort of explaining his thought process going into what he's about to do. If the subject is too touchy, I beg you to please stop reading.

If you do decide to read on, thank you so much.

Reviews are love and cupcakes.

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Dear Seven Billioner,

I'm only writing this to you because it hurts too much to write to anyone else. I need to leave something behind- something to let everyone know that I didn't _want _to abandon them. I wanted to stay, and fight, and win, but I can't. I know my limits. Everything's pointing downhill from here, and if I don't take control right now, I'll self-destruct. I want to leave with some dignity left in me. I want to leave knowing that I still had control over my fate, and that it wasn't in the hands of some varsity jacket.

If you haven't guessed, yes, I'm planning on killing myself. You can say, "he took his own life," or, "he went to a better place", but a pile of shit by any other name would still smell like a pile of shit. So we might as well not beat around the bush. We should be blunt. Precise. It might make this whole thing less sad, and more matter-of-fact.

Seven Billioner, I'm afraid to say that I'm losing faith in ever finding you. I keep wishing you'll be just around the corner, and that you'll come in your armor to help, no, to save me. But that's just it. You're one of _7 billion_. There's next to no chance of me ever being as important to you as the idea of you is to me. I'm tired of just hoping for you. I'm tired of missing what could've happened between me and the man that might not even exist. You were what was going to make me strong again.

I'm a strong person, I know I am, more than most people. I like being strong. Being strong is the only thing I have over everyone else, but I'm losing it. I'm losing my strength. The incessant locker shoving, slushie throwing and name-calling is finally taking its toll on me. I'm becoming defenseless, tolerant, and _weak_. The bullies are making their way under my skin, and I'm disgusted at myself for letting them get that deep.

So, I'm leaving before they take over completely. I'm not going to let myself be their slave. There's no way I'll let myself submit to them. This is the only way I can be remembered for remaining true to who I am until the end. This is the only way I'll stay Kurt Hummel when everything's good and done.

They'll be happy. They'll say that they won. They'll say that they beat me. But the truth is that they never completely got to me. That'll be their biggest disappointment of all, when they figure it out. I'll have gone to a place where they'll never get to me. _That's_ how I'll have won.

I'm sorry to leave you behind, Seven Billioner. It looks like I'll have to meet you some other life.

-Kurt

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Author's Note again: In my mind, this isn't the only note that Kurt wrote. For the purposes of this story and concept, however, this is the only letter that will be shown.

Also, obviously, this is not the end, since our boys haven't even met yet!

Thanks again for reading, still! If it's not too bothersome, please take the time to review. I'd very much like to improve. :)


	4. Letter 4

**Author's Note:**

Hello there, friends! If you're still reading this, I applaud you, and hug you, and kiss you because THANK YOU for even glancing at this piece.

The last chapter ended on a pretty sour note, so I'm hoping this is a liiiiiiiiiiiiittle less angsty...

ALSO: I forgot to mention that this fic is semi-canonical. That might clear a few things up... or just confuse you more. I'll shut up now.

_Please review, though! Reviews are love and pillows! :D_

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Dear Seven Billioner,

I didn't think anything could hurt more than what I've been going through in school. Obviously, every time I'm shoved into a locker hinge, it feels like I'm being slapped on the back with a metal folding chair, like the ones you see in those wrestling matches? In my case, however, there's no script, no half-hearted hits, and no way to fake the pain.

However, is it possible to just pretend that my last letter never happened? I was going to do it, really. I was going to do it after school that day; I had it all planned out. The plan was to leave school, and go to one last Sing-Along Sound of Music, to have just a few more moments of joy for me- any peace of mind that I could squeeze out from the bliss of being in a room full of people like me, full of people that won't look at me twice. It's the only time I enjoy being ignored. All I needed were those few hours in that room where I could be happy being myself.

I never made it to Sing-Along Sound of Music, though. After French-3 at school, all I could think about was getting to the hospital. _Just get to the hospital. A few more minutes, and you'll be at the hospital, Kurt. You'll go into your big, chubby old man's room, and he'll have that stupid grin on his face as he chuckles and says, "Oops." Then, you'll pretend to get mad, but really you'll just be glad that he's alive. Of course, you'll start negotiating taking away his cookies and reducing the calorie count of his diet. "Saffron is your friend," you'll say. And you'll hug him and kiss him on the cheek and tell him to never, ever, ever scare you like that again. Yes. That's exactly what's going to happen._

"…he hasn't regained consciousness… lack of blood to his brain… keeping him comatose… no guarantees… damage… the lack of oxygen…"

"When is he gonna wake up?"

"I don't know."

That's all I remember, really, before I made myself enter his room. I don't think you could call it a room, even. It was just the hospital bed and the stupid machines surrounded by four curtain walls. There wasn't much room to move around; he walls were too close together. No doubt, I immediately spoke to someone about moving him. There was no way my father was remaining comatose in that sad excuse for a room.

…comatose.

You should've seen him on the bed. There were so many wires running in and out of him, and he wasn't moving at all. There was all this annoying beeping and the breathing machine thing that – holy shit – was keeping him alive, I think, but the sounds were just so incessant and irritating and I just wanted to be with my father in peace and quiet and _wow_ there were so many wires, _too_ many wires-

He didn't squeeze back. I held his hand, and he just… didn't do anything. He usually- you have to understand that he squeezes back. He's a squeezer: hands, shoulders, hugs. He squeezes. But he didn't. My heart was falling apart, and my dad wasn't squeezing the pieces back together.

But I'm stronger now. I have more to be strong for… because he's awake. That was all just a week and a half ago, but now, he's awake. He's _awake_.

I'd almost forgotten what it was like to lose someone, until this happened. My mom, she… Well, you'd know by now, but she died when I was 8. I was a very young, naïve age, then. I didn't really know what was happening at the time, and it just kind of blew up in my face. All of a sudden, she was gone.

When I thought about losing my dad, and when I was faced with the very, _very real_ possibility that I actually would, I couldn't breathe properly. I tried everything I could think of to keep him alive and get some oxygen into his _fucking brain_. He's too important to me, and there's no way I'd let him leave me so soon. There was no way I was losing someone so important to me _again._

...

That was when I realized that I couldn't go through with killing myself.

Every horrible and wrong thing that I felt this past week, everything anxious, sad, vulnerable, empty… dad would've gone through that tenfold. I'd think about each time I cried, and that he would've cried harder and longer over me.

He gave up so much for me. He worked entirely too hard for me. He fucking _kept_ me even after-

He loved me. Loves me. He's all I could ever dare to ask for in a father, and I let myself forget that. What kind of person would I be if I left when he needed me the most? I never could betray the greatest man I've ever known like that.

I can be here for him now. I'll take care of him, and this is what's going to keep me here. Living, at least, for now.

So I guess we have a little more time, Seven Billioner. I can still wait.

-Kurt


	5. Letter 5

Dear Seven Billioner,

Things are going better at home. Dad's getting stronger everyday, and soon, I'll let him walk on his own. I'm not letting him get off of our couch in the living room. The nice, safe couch, where he stays and can't fall over and get injured and… yes. He'll be safe.

I'm trying to get him to eat healthier, but who knows how difficult_ that's_ going to be. For starters, it really is so damn difficult to find saffron in Ohio. Yes, I mean _all of Ohio_. I've gone out of town dozens of times to go through any and all grocery stores that I come across. None. At all. Well, so far. There are a few nooks that I haven't checked out yet. For now, I'm sticking to grilling things, and using the healthiest broths I can find.

Second, the man insists on having one more slice of chicken than really needs. It's infuriating mostly. God, I mean, doesn't he know that that's the reason he- nevermind. I'm not getting into this again. He's alive, he's well, and he's here. Everything's peachy. It's fine.

…

We got a new recruit for Glee club this week. He's sort of goofy, but workable. He seems to get along with everyone, so that's good. And he looks good. The bottle blonde dye is a bit much, though. He denies it, of course, but I know better. The color is pretty uneven, and he should've let it set more down the back… anyway.

This week's assignment is _duets_, so I thought I might try to befriend the guy and get him to be my partner. He's new, and he joined Glee. He obviously doesn't know what he's getting himself into by joining the bottom feeders of McKinley, so I might as well try to toughen him up, and get him good and prepared. I already told him to keep a spare shirt and a towel in his locker. Oh my god, the look on his face was-

For a split second, I got excited because… I could've sworn he was you. I thought that maybe I'd actually found you. I tried to believe he was you, but I never got the feeling in the pit of my stomach that I thought I would feel. I never got that little bit of electricity down my spine whenever I saw him.

With you, time's going to stop. Our eyes will meet for the first time, and it'll just stop. I'll keep looking into big pools of whatever the color of your eyes may be, and I'll know it's you.

He's not you. He is definitely not you at all.

-Kurt


	6. Letter 6

Dear Seven Billioner,

They're hazel. Your eyes, they're… hazel. Oh my god, _your eyes_.

I'm gonna get back to this when I can… wow.

I'm sorry, I just... _wow_.

-Kurt


	7. Letter 7

**Author's Note:**

SORRY. Gahd. I haven't updated in, what, two months? I'm the worst. Guh. Sorry to you readers, life kind of got in the way for a while.

Regardless, I hope you like this chapter/letter/thing anyway.

I love you all!

Reviews are farted sprinkles!

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Dear friend,

I'm afraid I didn't do your eyes justice in my last letter. Forgive me, my brain was malfunctioning at the time, and I wasn't able to… articulate so much. So, my attempt begins now. Please excuse the faux-poetic quality that the next couple of paragraphs might contain.

Dalton Academy scares me. Or, well, _scared _me. I stood out, so much more than I already do, in a sea of pristinely pressed navy blazers, straight grey slacks and bright red Dalton crests. It took all of my nerve to tap someone's shoulder,_ your_ shoulder, to get your attention. Then you looked up at me with those eyes of yours, and everything I was previously afraid of seemed so petty, so unimportant because… there were your _eyes_.

There's something so completely inviting about your eyes, something that draws me to them. They're like the light at the end of the tunnel. Something so bright and vibrant, when everything's supposed to be dark and dull. They're so big and so expressive, and they _smile_ at me, and…

I'll try to tap into your brain for a second here. Do you know those days when the world just seems kind of yellow? It happens sometimes when the sun is getting ready to set. Everything- the trees, the grass, the streets, the sky, the clouds, they get a lovely golden hue about them. It makes the scene seem warm at first, but then a cool breeze passes by, and then you're able to feel heaven for a little while. That's what I think of when I look into your eyes. Getting lost in gold, and feeling heaven. And when they twinkle… _god_…

When they twinkle… it's almost impossible to me, how much they do. It's like seeing stars across a golden sky, when nighttime hasn't even started. It's breathtaking, and stunning, and so, _so_ impossible. I think your eyes are the most beautiful things I never could've begun to imagine.

I could look at your eyes forever. I could _talk about_ your eyes forever.

They're perfect.

…

Oh.

Friend. Huh. Look at that. Friend. Not 'Dear Seven Billioner', not 'Dear ally'… you just skipped that whole ally stage, didn't you? It just took you two days, and then _friend_. Just like that.

I never clicked with anyone this easily, you know. I always have my guard up when I meet new people, and it usually takes me a couple of weeks to warm up to someone and let them into my world a bit. It was never as easy with anyone else as it was with you. To think, you were just two hours away from me. Just a two-hour drive to Westerville, and my world would've flipped on its axis. Two hours.

We grew close really quickly, you and me. It's strange… but so, _so_ welcome. I've been trying to figure out how that could possibly be, though, and I think I've finally found the answer.

It isn't because you're gay as well, even though I've found relief in knowing that I can finally talk to someone about the things that I couldn't, even with my best friend, Mercedes. It isn't that you were bullied in your old school, just like I am now, and that we can relate to each other through that. It isn't even due to the fact that you kept making heart eyes at me while singing your stupid song about hands on skin-tight jeans. (Although, you're very much free to look at me like that whenever you want.)

It's that, three weeks ago, I couldn't hold my father's hand like I used to.

I'd put my hand in his, and he'd know just how much to squeeze to make me feel better. I felt safe, holding his hand. Then three weeks ago, he wouldn't squeeze back. He couldn't comfort me, and make me all better. I didn't feel safe anymore, and I thought I would never feel that again. I thought I'd lost that feeling forever. I thought I'd lost my home.

When he woke up, I had to be his rock. I had to be the squeezing hand that he'd feel safe holding. I was completely content to be that for him for a while. He needed me to be that, just like I did, him, for so long. I was fine taking care of him.

And it was so, so selfish of me, but then I started to wonder when the roles would reverse once again.

Then you came along. You, with your stupidly, wonderfully bright, golden eyes, and your face that was _made _for a smile…_ You_ held my hand. We introduced ourselves, and you held my hand, and… _you_ squeezed. You squeezed my hand when my father couldn't, and I felt safe again. Even when you were dragging me through your suspiciously long shortcut, I felt safe. I felt at home.

I really hope I get to keep you. I really hope you're you.

-Kurt


End file.
